The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(27)

Peter stopped at the tape. CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS.

When a police officer came up to see what he wanted, Peter nodded at his pickup. “That’s my truck.”

The cop was older than Peter, with arms like bridge cables and a face made of stone. He asked for Peter’s ID. “My wallet’s in the glove box,” said Peter. “Or it was before some asshole broke my window.”

The cop nodded. “Wait for the detective.”

“What happened?” asked Peter. “Somebody get hurt?”

The cop’s face didn’t change. “Wait for the detective.”

Peter waited while the cop went to a group of men standing around the body. Uniformed cops paced around, eyes down, examining the ground.

After ten minutes, a tall, narrow guy in a tall, narrow suit under a long, dark coat came up to the tape line. In his late forties, he had the measured stride of a marathoner and the distant stare of a sniper. He opened a notebook, licked the tip of a pencil, and looked at Peter like he knew every time Peter had crossed against the light.

It was a little disconcerting. The white static fizzed down low.

“Name.”

Peter told him. The detective didn’t write it down.

“Address.”

Peter gave the man his parents’ house up north, although he hadn’t been back since he mustered out. The detective didn’t look surprised. It was the same address on the driver’s license. He didn’t write that down, either.

“Phone?”

“I don’t have one.”

That raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have one?”

Peter shook his head. Although he was thinking he should get one. One of those smartphones, if he could get one without a credit card. He didn’t have a credit card, either. Neither one had mattered when he was up in the mountains.

“What’s your business here?”

Peter had the answer ready. “I was working on a friend’s house a few blocks away. I finished for the day, was headed to Speed Queen for barbecue, and stopped to let my dog out. He took off after something. I went after him.”

“You stopped in this neighborhood? To let your dog out?” The detective wasn’t buying it.

“I’m not from around here,” said Peter. “It didn’t look so bad compared to where I’ve been.”

The detective’s eyes were a mild gray in the crime-scene lights, and utterly without illusions. “I bet,” he said. “So where’s the dog?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter. “I never found him. But I did see a black Ford SUV chasing a Chevy Impala going north on Twentieth about an hour ago, going really fast. The Ford almost ran me over. I got the license plates.”

The detective raised his eyebrows, an understated disbelieving will-wonders-never-cease? kind of look. “Oh, really.”

Peter gave him the plate numbers from the Impala and the black SUV that had followed him from Dinah’s house.

The detective licked his pencil again, and this time he wrote down the numbers. And some other things, too, because he kept writing.

Peter said, “You mind my asking what happened?”

“Shoot-out in the big city,” said the tall detective, pencil still moving on his notebook. He tilted his head toward the man Peter had killed, who had tried to kill him. “Young man over there, now deceased. Appeared to be armed with an AK-47. Probably not on his way to church.”

He closed the notebook and tucked it into his jacket pocket, lifted the yellow tape. “C’mon in,” he said. Then strolled through the crime scene like it was his backyard. Peter walked beside him.

“Guy hosed down half the block,” said the detective. “Most of two clips, fifty or sixty rounds. Really a fine American. Didn’t hit any people I know of yet, although the night is young. Put a bunch of holes in cars and houses. Most of those holes in your truck, unfortunately,” he said, pointing at it with his chin. But he stopped short of the pickup, beside a patrol car parked blocking the street.

“No official suspects on the killer. Whoever did it drilled him dead center, right in the forehead. Single shot. That’s marksmanship.”

Then the tall detective opened the rear door of the patrol car.

“Get inside,” he said.

“What for?” asked Peter, keeping his voice mild although the static sparked inside him. His heart thumped harder in his chest. Goddamn it. “I wasn’t here. I just want to get my truck and find my dog, and get some dinner. I’ve been working all day. I’m hungry.”

“I’m not taking you in,” said the detective. “I’m just going to run your record.”

“Because I parked on the wrong block?”

“Because, looking at you, I’m guessing you’re a vet.”

“I’m a carpenter.”

The detective gave him a look. “Don’t be an asshole. You were over there. Am I right?”

Reluctantly, Peter nodded. “Marines. Recon.”

The detective filed it away. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Both,” said Peter.

“Welcome home, son,” said the detective, not unkindly. “But you’re the only guy I’ve got with practice shooting at people. So get in the car.”